Page 4 of Our Own Light

Oliver’s question caught Floyd by surprise, both because Floyd was impressed that Oliver could even remember what they had been talking about before his mouth had taken off like a racehorse and because no one had asked him about his family for a long time. Suddenly, a handful of bittersweet memories were resurfacing—moments that managed to make Floyd smile even though they were painful—like little heart-shaped bruises of the mind.

“Yeah,” Floyd said. “In her own way.”

“What do you mean?”

Floyd supposed sharing a story couldn’t hurt.

“She couldn’t hardly whistle. Still, she expected me to come home on time. If I listened real close, I could hear this right pathetic attempt of hers, one so quiet it sounded more like wind moving through tree branches. Sometimes, when I really wanted to keep playing, I’d pretend I never even heard her.” Floyd laughed to himself. “When I’d come home, she’d say something like, ‘Why’re you so late? Ain’t you hear me whistling for you?’ and I’d lie right to her face saying, ‘No, ma’am, I swear I never heard a thing.’”

Despite the twinge of pain that nearly always accompanied thoughts of his mother, Floyd found himself happy to have shared the memory with someone.

“I love that,” Oliver said with a warm laugh. “It’s sweet.”

Floyd noticed, then, that Oliver had a real nice laugh. It was a kind one, the type of laugh that made others happier for hearing it. Suddenly, it was like the memory hurt a little less.

Floyd kind of wanted to share some more with him. Oliver talked a lot, but the man hadn’t been born without listening ears, it seemed.

“I like to think that my mom’s poor whistling is the reason I can hear better than most folks I’ve met. Made me a real sharp hunter.”

“Wow. I’ve never even shot a rifle in my entire life.”

“Now I know you must be from the city,” Floyd said. “I been hunting since I was a kid.”

“Lucky,” Oliver remarked, which was a nice thing to hear. Floyd hadn’t expected that from someone like Oliver. “I’ve never spent much time in nature, mostly because of my parents. Honestly, I’ve always been fascinated by places like this—little towns tucked away in the mountains. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to move here.”

“Well, there’s plenty to like out here—birds and wildflowers and such.”

“I can tell,” Oliver said, still beaming. “Thank you for taking me to find a telephone so that I can try to talk to Frederick. Or maybe James will be able to help. I can’t imagine myself staying in a boarding house. Trust me, it’ll be better for everyone if I have my own space. I know what I’m like. Someone would probably smother me in my sleep before the week is out.”

Floyd nearly choked on his spittle. What kind of person would talk like that about themselves? And to someone they’d only known for fifteen or twenty minutes? What a funny thing.

Oliver seemed to take some kind of offense to Floyd’s non-response.

“Uh, you know, because of my mouth?” Oliver clarified, as though Floyd needed the explanation for him to properly appreciate the humor.

Sure enough, something in the eagerness of Oliver’s expression, coupled with the words he had said, made Floyd laugh.

“Are you referring to your constant talking or the swear words you seem to like peppering in from time to time?” Floyd had to ask.

Oliver answered without hesitation. “Both. Definitely both.”

Floyd snorted and shook his head. “Funny man.”

“Thank you.”

They came to the long dirt drive at the end of the road, the one that led up to James Donohue’s mansion.

Floyd pointed to it and said, “Well, that’s the house. Good luck trying to figure out your situation.”

“Thanks,” Oliver said. “I hope your ears are intact the next time I see you.”

Floyd smirked. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

After the two of them parted, Floyd started for home. He only made it a few paces before having to contend with the urge to look over his shoulder. Floyd felt some strange kind of pull toward Oliver. He wasn’t sure why. Just an interesting fella, Floyd supposed. Oliver wasn’t really like anyone else Floyd had ever met. For one thing, no one else in Rock Creek ever prattled on like Oliver, which made him pretty interesting to talk to. For another, Oliver was funny. His sense of humor was a little off, but Floyd was surprised to find that he kind of liked it. Last, but certainly not least, Oliver was handsome. He had that nice smile and that soft-looking yellow hair and those eyes that were a real unusual color. He was tall, too. Not that much shorter than Floyd was, which was really saying something, and had been wearing that fine-looking clothing. Yup, Oliver was a handsome fella, for sure.

Jeez, what in the world was wrong with him? It had been years since he had let himself think about a man’s looks like that.

When Floyd looked over his shoulder for the third time (Lord help him, he was counting), Oliver was quite a ways away, nearly at the front door of Donohue’s house, and so Floyd paused to watch him for a bit. While Floyd was busy thinking ’bout that friendly sounding laugh Oliver had, Oliver looked over his shoulder, too. And then their eyes met, and Floyd’s stomach tumbled. After a quick wave, Floyd turned back around and continued home.

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